Slow Burn
by Jessica R Vance
Summary: "It started simply. Most things do." A few 250-word snips, rated T for thoughts of adult themes.


**Slow Burn**  
S.J. Hartsfield

It started simply. Most things do. Sherlock's toes, cold, shoved under John's leg as they sat on the sofa. John glanced down, abandoning his blog long enough to say, "You could just get some socks, you know."

Sherlock shook his head, eyes closed in meditation. "This is easier," he muttered.

John allowed it and went back to writing up the latest case. His typing, glacial on the best of days, slowed further. They weren't prone to prolonged contact, he and Sherlock. A clap on the shoulder, a harangued hand fisted in a coat sleeve. Momentary. This was markedly different, and John noted with some bemusement that he rather enjoyed it. It was… comfortable.

Until Sherlock wiggled his toes, presumably in thought. A very unmanly giggle erupted in John's throat; he tried to turn it into a cough, turning a pointedly casual look on his flatmate, but from the smug delight on Sherlock's face, it was clearly too late. "Ticklish, doctor?" he asked without a trace of innocence.

"Shut up," John muttered, looking back to his laptop screen. He felt the tiniest tremor in Sherlock's feet. "Don't you do it again," he cautioned in a voice he hoped very much sounded threatening.

Sherlock leaned his head back, closing his now-twinkling eyes. "I won't," he swore, but John just knew that he was filing it away in some cluttered corner of his mind palace. For leverage. For relief of boredom. For the future. He grunted and tried to focus on his work.

* * *

Sherlock paced, the cramped sitting room cutting his long strides short by necessity. He tossed his mobile back and forth between his hands, flinging it to one as soon as he caught it in the other, lightning-quick, almost inhuman. A caged panther, John thought, has more capacity for inactivity.

It had been six hours since their last case.

He'd given up trying to read his book roughly ten minutes ago. Now he simply watched Sherlock growl around the flat, through the living room, into his bedroom, passing through the kitchen. Up the stairs, which worried John momentarily, but he came right back down again and John relaxed. He crouched down beside John's chair, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "John," he said, near to whinging. "I'm – "

"Bored, yeah," John finished. He glanced down at his book.

Sherlock whipped around, on his knees in front of him, gripping the arms of the chair until his knuckles went white. "I can't stand this," he hissed, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "I can feel my mind _congealing_. You have to – "

John's hands shot out before he could stop himself, holding Sherlock's face, his fingers dimpling the skin where it was soft between the bone. "Just… hold… _still_ for half a minute," he growled, something brutal in his voice.

Amazingly, Sherlock did. John counted to ten, before releasing him. Sherlock stared, a hazy sort of wondering behind his eyes. Looking at him hurt, somehow. John turned back to his book.

* * *

He was watching telly (crap), curled up in his chair, hot mug of tea clasped loosely between his palms. It had been a pleasant, quiet evening.

But nothing stays.

Sherlock breezed in, back from who knows where, and was out of his coat and scarf within seconds. "What are you watching?" he asked absently, headed straight for the kettle he knew would be boiled.

"X-Factor."

Sherlock's _hmm_ meant he either didn't care, had never heard of it, or both. He came into the sitting room with his own steaming mug and perched on the arm of the chair, arm slung across the back, just brushing John's head. Simple, this contact, and innocent, but something about it felt natural and strangely intimate. John took a steadying sip of tea and leaned against it.

The warmth was gone almost instantly, save for the bony press of Sherlock's elbow against his skull. He thought maybe Sherlock had realized the familiarity of the position and given up on it, but then he felt fingertips on his head – long, idle caresses shifting through his hair. His mouth fell open and he glanced up at Sherlock, trying not to move his head. The detective's eyes were still locked on the screen, a wrinkle of consternation deepening between his eyebrows. He wasn't thinking, wasn't paying attention to what he was doing. And God help him, John's scalp was sensitive, and it felt so bloody good that he wasn't about to draw attention to the strangeness of it.

* * *

His heart was racing, lungs heaving fit to burst. He was filthy and bleeding and he was pretty sure he'd pulled something in his back, which now rested against a rough brick wall, but he was happy, bordering on exuberant. Streetlights struggled to reach into the alley where he and Sherlock had taken cover, fighting for breath, scrambling for composure. It had been a hell of a fight, but they'd wrested the missing necklace from the thieves, sent one of them sprawling, and beat a hasty retreat from the others. John had wanted to confront them, but Sherlock had more than enough information to lead Lestrade to their base. Their job was done for now.

John looked down at his bruising knuckles. Guns were all well and good, he thought, but sometimes it just felt _right_ to punch a bastard in the face. He felt like Indiana Jones. The thought made him snort with half-giddy laughter, which drew Sherlock's attention – and his twisting, unmistakably genuine smile – to him. The barely-there light cut his face into shadows, a base relief of contentment. They grinned at each other, partners in crime-fighting, and John realized his other hand (the one without thug-blood on) was gripping Sherlock's wrist, their arms sandwiched between their sides. Not breaking his gaze, he allowed his fingers to slide until they half-twined with Sherlock's, index over middle over all the rest, thumb bent to hold it all together. Their skin was warm and damp and felt like a promise.

* * *

The sound of his keyboard, _rick-ticka-tick_, was almost deafening in the silence. He'd finished his entry ("Diamonds Are For Never") and was replying to a particularly in-depth e-mail from Harry. Sherlock sat across from him, eyes flying over his own computer's screen with alarming speed. He rested his head against his hand, knuckled curled into his cheek, small finger bent and stroking his bottom lip thoughtlessly. John glanced up, the movement catching his eye, and found himself watching the scrape-scrape of nail against flesh.

Sherlock's other hand moved, tapped twice on the laptop's touchpad, and reclaimed its spot on the table. John looked back to his screen. He was in the middle of a sentence – "I've just about gotten used to finding body parts in the freezer, but" – and could not for the life of him remember what came next. He dropped his hands uselessly to either side of the screen, his left landing inches away from Sherlock's right. He shifted in his seat, using the movement as an excuse. His hand crept forward. Centimeters, millimeters, a breath away now.

The space between them closed. Sherlock's fingers barely brushed his, eyes never leaving the screen. His thumb traced the dips and curves of his knuckles; John's stomach tied itself in pretzel twists and a fire ignited below his throat. He'd come to like it – the way they touched, lingering, at some sort of ease. He smiled, looked back at his e-mail, and wondered what on earth to tell his sister.

* * *

They read entirely different sorts of books. John liked a good thriller (in life, apparently, as in novels), an adventure, maybe something with medical inaccuracies he could have a chuckle at. Sex scenes never hurt, but they weren't a requirement. Sherlock, on the other hand, rarely delved outside the realm of nonfiction. For him, books were learning tools just like everything else, and real people were far more enlightening specimens than fictitious ones. Besides, he'd often groused, reality is already chockablock full of nitwits – why saddle himself with more in the name of so-called leisure?

Despite their differing tastes in material, they had in common a love of passing the time by devouring literature. They even, usually, agreed on where to do it. The sofa was the perfect spot, really, because it allowed the reader to stretch out and get perfectly comfortable, so that physical irritation didn't detract from the reading experience. They knew, but unspoken agreement, that the lighting there was best (soft, but not so dim as to cause a strain) and that the distractions of their computers, mobiles, and the telly could be most easily avoided there.

John knew instinctively that all of this was true. What he _couldn't_ figure out, no matter how much thought he gave it, was when they had decided to share the space, their backs pressed together, leaning on each other for support. He flipped another page, felt a slight ripple in Sherlock's shoulder blades, and decided he didn't mind too much.

* * *

John lost himself in the drone of the faucet as he tipped plates into the foam. They never had a terrible amount of washing up to do, but somehow he always found himself responsible for it when they did. Sherlock, of course, had much more important things to do with his time - at least, that's what he said whenever John dared to breach the subject. He started with the flatware, letting the dishes soak a bit while his mind wandered.

_Sherlock_. He couldn't pin down what it was or when it had happened, but something ineffable had changed between them. He thought of a dozen little things, of fingers idly intertwined, of Sherlock's palm pressed warm on his leg while both of them pretended not to notice. His tongue raked slowly across his lower lip and he tried not to imagine what might have happened if that hand had only stayed just a bit longer, had crept just a bit further...

He'd been polishing the same spoon for five minutes. Flushing and glad no one could see, he hurriedly tossed it into the drying rack and reached for another.

The heat of Sherlock's hands on his back made him straighten, as rigid as if he were under inspection. Perhaps he was. He felt fingers splay, five points of pressure, the thumbs tucking into the notches of his shoulder blades. Their bodies were close, his back to the taller man's chest, and Sherlock said absolutely nothing. They both just _breathed_.

* * *

The sofa, as it happened, was also an ideal place to nap. John was given to naps, when the opportunity presented itself, and was often knackered from his late-night excursions with the world's only consulting detective. He'd meant to lie down for just a moment, just long enough to remember that his eyes could, in fact, close. But as soon as he was horizontal, he knew no more.

There were no dreams. There hadn't been, really, since he'd moved in.

He woke up some two-odd hours later, but didn't open his eyes immediately - partly because he was so bloody comfortable, partly because he knew the light would sting and dreaded the pain. He savored the few fleeting moments between sleep and total consciousness, and in those moments it dawned on him that there was a weight leaning on him. A considerable weight.

_One eye at a time, John_. Just a slat in his vision, and that was enough for him to make a deduction of his own for what may have been the first time ever. Dark, unruly hair tucked up under his chin. Long, heavy hands limp at his sides. Blue silk slithering on his cotton shirt with every breath.

John smiled. He wasn't a religious man - never had been, even in his most desperate moments at war - but as he wrapped his arms around the man spooning against his chest, he uttered a private, silent prayer that he wouldn't wake for a good long while.

* * *

Breath, hot against his temple. Just there. Curling condensation in his hair, clever hands trailing across his clavicle. Shudders shaking his spine, like a lightning strike traveling down, down to ground itself until he could hardly move. His name, low thunder in Sherlock's throat, making him ache all over and oh, it felt good. They hadn't kissed, no, not quite. It was nothing but a pull, a gentle and insistent suggestion, one palm pressed on the small of his back. They were so close and he'd never felt so much like shivering out of his own skin.

His hands were at his collar, a nervous flutter there, unsure of what to do. He thought that, for once, his mind must be racing as quickly as Sherlock's always did - a thousand questions, only some of them answered. But the most important he knew. And the answer was yes, God yes, please. He'd never felt such want, never felt so _wanted_. Never before had he considered himself so reverently, deeply _desired_ as he did in this moment. The fingers on his spine curled to claws, points that revealed nothing and promised everything.

When he turned up his head, everything would change. Only a slight angle, a few degrees at most, but that fraction would send him spiraling down into something from which he could never return. It could still be stopped, could be contained and packed away and forgotten about. He did the only thing he could.

He tilted his face.


End file.
